just hold me now, and let it be
by maddieclaybourne
Summary: you're here and that's all i need to know/ or every great warrior falls, even asgard's greatest female warrior, the lady sif - past thor/sif, mentions thor/jane


_Author's Note: I was inspired by "A Little Fall Of Rain" from Le Miserables. Specifically the Samantha Barks and Eddie Redmayne version from the 2012 film._

**~*~just hold me now, and let it be~*~**

_**the rain can't hurt me now/this rain will wash away what's past**_

"_**a little fall of rain" - le miserables, eponine and marius**_

_**as portrayed by eddie redmayne and samantha barks**_

They – as two of Asgard's finest warriors – had been here many times before. The stains of battle weren't foreign to them, even if ancient customs and traditions believed for centuries that the battle field was no place for a woman.

But, Thor thought with a wry smile, Sif was no ordinary woman. He could see her now – much younger – in the dresses women favored, her raven hair tumbling down her back, crown of flowers circling her head, sharp dark blue eyes entranced by the Palace's training grounds and its warriors.

Bearing babes and making house was not for Sif. She hungered not for marriage, but for the heat of the battle. Her eyes becoming sharper, more focused and intense as they followed the movements of the warriors, her teeth sinking into her lip so hard, he feared she would make herself bleed.

Entranced by her uniqueness, her unwilling to yield to centuries of Asgardian tradition, she had captured the attention of the most sought after male, the Son of Odin – well, one of – and crowned prince himself, Thor.

They had explored their budding womanhood and manhood with each other, learning the pleasures of the flesh and forming a bond that ran deeper than just intrigue on both their parts. He had trained with her, finding her to be a far more superior opponent than his father's chosen adversaries, palace guards who were strictly instructed not to let the future king fall, even in just a training exercise.

But she had never bent, she stood strong and tall against him, not falling at his feet like every other maiden. And when she bested him, fairly, her smile was blinding and her sharp eyes triumphant. Her laughter rang true like ceremonial bells, bright and chiming, and she showed her strength as she easily helped him up and asked, eager like a newborn colt able to roam free, "Again?"

But as familiar with the pitfalls of battle as they were, the stains, the aches, the injuries, _this time_ was different.

He could feel it rattling his formidable bones, the sickening feeling, as the rain pounded down and the healer Eir worked diligently to fix her wounds. He knew they were grave, that they were not to be taken lightly; the pale of her normally warm cheeks told him so, the limp of her always strong grip was another sign, just like the shallow breaths she was letting in and out, each one sounding like a labor.

Her hair was matted to her face from sweat and the rain, her once sharp and focused eyes, dazed and glazing, and _how_ he was standing, he couldn't be sure.

Only his mother and Jane Foster were as important to him as Sif. The thought – at her cry of anguish, the arrow was removed from her being, he knew – of not having her by his side, of her making the passage to Valhalla, the rightful resting place of all great warriors, made his great chest heave with a choked sob. He hadn't expected the sound until he heard another cry being ripped from her throat, and though she was far more calm than he [the sound of thunder rattling over head could be heard], he couldn't stand aside while she was struggling.

She had been by his side during his most gruesome injuries, and he would not abandon her in this time of dire need.

* * *

Sif knows – has known since the head of the arrow first pierced her skin – that the wound is serious, far more grave than she's ever experienced. She struggles not to let the tears, building behind her eyes, fall. The two – two too many – cries of anguish she lets out, are the only hints at the pain she feels within her body; the searing, burning... almost ripping of her insides.

Forcing her tears away – warriors, but especially Asgard's greatest [only] female warrior, do not cry.

Crying was a sign of weakness, and she was anything but weak.

Sucking in a shaky breath as Eir works far more quickly than she's ever seen, she hears the familiar heavy footfalls and a crack of thunder over head, and even though every breath is taking more and more from her, her heart still manages to leap.

_Thor_.

She is all too aware of his deep affection for the Lady Jane of Midgard, but while flights of fancy and daydreams of the crowned prince consumed the other maidens, deep down – in the place it counted most – she was not immune, as much as she wished, of the Thunderer's charms.

Together, they had fought many a battle side by side, he accepting her as one of his own, a warrior in her own right and not some silly little girl indulging in fantasy.

And once – all too briefly [for her] – they had engaged in more than friendship. He was the first to have her, to make her bend to the will of a man, to surrender and so far he was the only. No other could compare to the crowned prince of Asgard, the God of Thunder himself. No other man could make her want to go against her baser instincts, the instincts of a warrior, a competitor, a force of nature.

And now he was _there_; by her side, his clear blue eyes a stormy grey and haunted.

"Now, now," She croaked, teasing. "Don't fret. Tis but a wound of the flesh. I have..." A coughing fit emerged, blood slipping from her mouth and his eyes widening in alarm. "Faced," She gritted through clenched teeth. "Worse. You know this."

She wasn't surprised that he was blinking, handsome brow burrowing down and lips twisting into a thin line. "Worse?" He all but roared, more thunder cracking as lightening illuminated the healing tent in a flash. "Now is not the time to be in a joking mood! Have you not looked upon yourself? Have you not seen your own wounds?"

She swallowed down the swell of her heart, his concern too much for her weakening body to take.

"But it is better I be wounded, than you, as Asgard cannot lose its future king and Midgard, another protector."

"Better?" He spat out the word, as if a bitter taste had coated his tongue. "Never utter such blasphemy again! Never will it be better that you be wounded rather than I! Never!"

"Calm yourself." She hissed, eyes narrowing. "I did what any warrior would do. I put myself before my prince. I am no different than Fandral or Volstaag or Hogun. You told me so yourself. Or do you not remember?" She challenged, reigning in the scream of anguish she could feel rising within her.

She watched, her eyes taking in every crease and line and angle of Thor's face. His eyes still a storming grey clouded over with remembrance, and a small [it was all she could manage, a barely there twist of her lips] but triumphant smile appeared along the line of her pale lips.

"I do remember." His voice was rough. "I will see the sun rise and set many a century before I forget the beaming pride that graced your face as I proclaimed you a warrior worthy to fight by my side, going against centuries of tradition. But I never hoped it would come to _this_; you laying your life down for mine. I never wanted that for you."

"I do not understand."

For the first time since they learned of the pleasures of the flesh together, Sif believed her hand to be small as Thor's engulfed hers. She felt purely female in this moment; his large, roughly calloused hand cradling her slender, feminine one. Her stomach twisted, not from pain, but from a familiar pang of longing, of knowing this – like all the other moments they shared – would be fleeting, that his heart was beating for the Lady Jane, despite her own beating for his.

His fingers gently brushed away her matted hair before his palm held her cheek. "I wanted more than a warrior's life for you. You deserve more than that. Babes and being a worthy man's wife, as much as those things do not appeal to you, were just as much a part of your destiny as _this._ You were meant to have nothing less than everything, and everything you will not have."

"No," She agreed, feeling her skin grow colder with each passing moment. "I will not. But wifery and babes were never what I longed for. I longed to be a warrior, to fight, to experience the heat of the battle, to show that I was as capable – if not more so – than any man, that a woman's place was not just in the home and to create babes. We are capable of so much more. And because of you," Her smile was more than just a slight twist, though it took nearly all she had as her voice became weaker and more raw. "I showed that a woman being a warrior was not an impossible feat. I am forever in your debt."

"Eir!" Thor roared as Sif's hand slowly slipped from his own.

* * *

There was nothing more to be done. In moments, Eir after doing everything in his power, Sif was going to take her last breath. On the battle field, in a tent, wrapped in Thor's imposing form.

He had his hand on her chest, feeling each slowly labored breath leaving her body. He had dismissed the healer, knowing Sif would not even want him to see her like this, body frail and seemingly helpless and weak. But she was wrong; she was not helpless or weak, she was still – even above his mother and Jane – the strongest woman he had ever known.

And the fiercest warrior, which, he thought – one lone tear sliding down the strong cut of his jaw – was much more important to her.

And a warrior's funeral she would receive. Her body burning on a pyre, so tall and grand, the bright oranges, raging reds and golden yellows of the flames rising high in the air; a sight that could be seen from Asgard to Jotunheim, and if it was possible as far as Midgard, because that was what she deserved.

"You were," He whispered, lips hovering over her ear. "The fiercest warrior I have ever known. No one will ever compare to you. Take those words with you as you pass to Valhalla, the resting place of all the great warriors, of which you are one."

Briefly her fingers curled around his, squeezing for not even a half of a beat of his heart, and slowly her eyes closed and her last breath was drawn.


End file.
